Page 38 of In Sheets of Rain

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Not Much Else You Can Say About That

“First shift together,” John announced. “This should be fun.”

“As long as you don’t have a Barbie doll as a mascot and insist on hanging it from the wing mirror,” I replied.

He blinked at me.

“Simon Wilson,” I explained. “The doll wore a bikini and high heels, and Simon said we couldn’t respond Priority One without her hanging on by her g-string.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” John murmured, a little mortified.

“No Barbie?” I enquired politely.

“I’m more of a Ken doll kinda guy.”

“Good to know.”

* * *

The station chimes interrupted my fifth cup of coffee. I gulped a mouthful down, burning my oesophagus in the process before I pulled out the pager. It’s not often I get surprised anymore.

“Shooting,” I said to John as he stood from the couch and stretched. “Grafton Mews, the Domain.”

He grimaced. “Anything else?” he asked, moving toward the garage.

The roller doors were already up; the red light hanging over Pitt Street already flashing. Traffic had stopped, and weary drivers watched as we climbed into the truck, John hitting the beacons and siren.

“Staging point is on the corner of Lower Domain and Grafton Mews,” I offered, doing up my seatbelt.

The ambulance rolled out of the station, and I hit the remote to close the doors behind us. Cars started tooting their horns at us before the front tyres even touched tar-seal. John offered a friendly wave, receiving a two-finger salute in reply. He started humming.

“I think I know the address,” I offered, as I brought it up on the GPS unit. “Could be a coincidence.”

The pager went off again. I glanced at it and sighed.

“No. I know it. It’s the bowling club. You know the one?”

“Yeah,” John said, scratching at his moustache. “Who the hell shoots a gun at an oldies’ bowling club?”

I tapped my pen against the run sheet and stared out the window.

* * *

The blue and red flashing lights of several police cars greeted us; painting the inner-city street in a mishmash of colours. Windows of nearby vehicles glinted sapphire one second and ruby the next, gifting me with the start of a headache. Two police cars angled across Grafton Mews, blocking the entrance. There’d be two more at the other end. John slowed the truck to a stop and rolled down his window.

“What’s the story?” he said to the cop standing sentinel at the corner of Grafton Mews and Lower Domain Drive.

“One confirmed gunshot victim. No sighting of the shooter. You’re to wait here until we secure the scene.”

John nodded and turned the ambulance’s ignition off.

The tick of the cooling engine and the ever-present hum of city life wafted in John’s open window. I kept mine closed and shivered.

“Ever been to a gunshot victim before?” John asked quietly.

I stared at the clock on the dashboard of the truck and shook my head.

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